


The Tragic Ballad of an Under-Caffeinated Hawkeye

by sara_holmes



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Background Relationships, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Clint Is a Good Bro, Clint is tragic, Coffee, Coffee addict Clint Barton, Deadpool makes a mess, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, car-crash flirting, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Tony are idiots, Pepper and Phil are 110% done with everyone and Clint just wants a cup of damn coffee. And maybe someone to appreciate how awesome he clearly is.</p><p>Also known as: you know you’re in trouble when Clint Barton is the one sane person left in the tower and Bucky Barnes is the only one who realizes this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tragic Ballad of an Under-Caffeinated Hawkeye

**Author's Note:**

> I started this like a year and a half ago. I remember a conversation in which we decided Clint Barton was the best bro (I think it was during the posting of Stay With Me?) and then this happened. Then I forgot about it. Then I found it! Yaay.

 

The sound of his phone buzzing obnoxiously over on his desk at nine AM is possibly the worst sound Clint Barton has ever heard. Worse than Justin Hammer in full on monologue mode, worse than the whine a Doombot’s laser makes just before it’s about to fire, worse than the click his quiver makes when it’s empty and rotating back into unoccupied space.

“Aw, phone, no,” Clint groans, burrowing himself down into his pillow. “Go away, there’s a good phone.”

The buzzing stops and Clint breathes a sigh of relief, letting all his muscles go slack and already drifting back towards sleep. He’s had a long week, a long, _long_ week of dealing with shitty low-level threats that have taken up most of his time and not left enough for sleep or food. It had taken seventy-two hours to get all of those damn mechanical spiders out of Brooklyn, and of course Clint had been the sucker who had ended up dealing with the bridge, and Spider-Man had nearly choked with giddy delight after Clint had been bitten. The jokes at his expense had been _endless._

But for now there are no mechanized arachnids feasting on the city’s electrical wiring, no Spider-Man to make jokes at him, no Cap shouting out orders as if he’s taken the spiders’ fixation on Brooklyn as a personal insult. Just his bed and his wonderful pillow, which he’s going to stay in until lunchtime-

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzzt._

“Fuck you, phone!”

Cursing his phone, his luck and the universe, Clint groggily pushes himself up off his bed and tries valiantly to force his body in the general direction of the buzzing. He gets his arms free and swings his body around; he realizes his horrible miscalculation at the moment when his left foot won’t co-operate, tangled in sheets and bedding, and apparently his right leg is not up for doing the whole standing upright job by itself today.

He trips, flails, staggers and grabs hold of the first thing he can. Tragically, the shelf is quite blatantly in league with his leg and doesn’t feel like supporting his bodyweight; there’s a crack, a crunch and the whole thing comes away from the wall, taking Clint with it.

Groaning in pain and pretty convinced that he’s just broken his spleen, Clint lies on his back, the shelf on the floor next to his shoulder, surrounded by loose change and books and a collection of finger-tabs that used to live on the shelf.

His phone keeps buzzing.

“I will not be defeated by a phone –  Jarvis, answer my phone.” Clint grits out, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Sorry, Agent Barton, your phone is not connected to my network. By your own personal request, may I remind you,” Jarvis answers smoothly, and fuck Tony Stark for making an AI that can achieve soul-crushing levels of condescension in its goddamn tone of voice.

Clint may or may not howl in frustration, and manages to crawl over to the desk where the phone is still buzzing. He grabs it, answers it, doesn’t bother trying to sound awake.

“Lo?”

“Hello, my name is Wendy and I’m calling from TMH direct and would just like to talk to you about-”

The voice is bright and breezy and far too chirpy for nine o clock in the goddamn morning, and Clint wishes he could kill something and get away with it.

“Whoa, whoa. Is this a goddamn telemarketing call?”

“Well, Sir, this is a courtesy call from TMH Direct-”

Clint slumps forwards, forehead banging against the edge of the desk. “No, no, no. How did you even get this number, I’m a goddamn Avenger, I should not be dealing with this on a Saturday morning-”

The voice pauses for a moment. “You’re an Avenger?” she asks, sounding skeptical, and the disbelieving note makes Clint want to kill _more_ things.

“Yes, I’m a goddamn Avenger, Clint Barton, nice to meet you, how did you get this number and why the fuck are you calling me on a Saturday morning?”

“Oh my god,” the voice says, rising in pitch, and Clint belatedly realizes the second horrible mistake he’s just made. “You’re – Hawkeye? You’re actually – no. You do sound familiar, you’re not, are you?”

Clint hangs up the phone and flops backwards, ignoring the pain in his side and back and the fingertab that is digging into his shoulder blade. He tosses his phone onto the floor and considers going back to sleep where he’s lying.

He breathes out deeply-

And the phone starts to buzz again.

“Fuck my life,” Clint says no no-one and nothing, and drags himself upright, rubbing his eyes. He ignores the phone, ignores the wreckage of his room and decides that there’s only one thing that can salvage this wreck of a morning.

Coffee.

 

* * *

It’s a mark of just how tired he is when it takes him three seconds to work out what’s happened when he stumbles out of his room and straight into someone. Legs still in sleep-mode, he trips and is only saved from another undignified encounter with the carpet by grabbing hold of the person’s biceps. His body does an awkward sort of slump-stretch and he pitches forwards, his face mashed into the person’s chest.

“Whoa!” A pair of hands reach out reflexively to grab hold of him and as he feels both warm skin and cool metal grip his arms he realizes who he’s clinging pathetically onto.

“Oh, god,” he says into Bucky’s chest. “I swear I normally give people a better time before I end up drooling into their cleavage.”

Bucky laughs, sounding surprised, and he hefts Clint back upright. Beyond embarrassed, Clint looks up to meet amused grey eyes, straightening his shirt which had rucked up during his stumble.

“Good start to the morning,” Bucky says, hands on Clint’s shoulders, and Clint can still feel the temperature difference through his shirt. Clint’s eyes rove downwards and he finds that the reason he just became so well acquainted with Bucky’s chest is that he’s shirtless. Wearing sweatpants and shirtless and man, that’s just not fair.

“This view is definitely making up for it,” Clint says vaguely, eyes on Bucky’s chest, and then his brain actually hears what he’s just said.

God damn it, mouth.

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, and the guy looks genuinely startled. If he weren’t now past embarrassed and tentatively delving into the territory that normal people would call shame, Clint would be impressed that he’s managed to surprise the Winter Soldier. Not that Bucky is anything like the Winter Soldier anymore, but still.

“Have you hit your head?” Bucky asks, sounding amused. He lets go of Clint and leans sideways, propping himself against the wall and casually folding his arms over his glorious chest.

“I wish I had a decent excuse,” Clint says, deciding to just give up and roll with it. “Why are you not wearing a shirt?”

“Went running with Steve,” Bucky shrugs his right shoulder and Clint’s mind stutters and goes blank. He stares at a point somewhere between him and Bucky, eyes not quite focused because _Bucky and Steve running shirtless._

“Right. You and Steve. Running shirtless. Right.”

Bucky laughs gain, tempered with amusement. He waves his left hand in front of Clint’s face. “Barton?”

“Sorry, just,” Clint shakes his head and refocuses. “Hell of a visual.”

And Bucky is back to looking a little startled, and Clint can’t even bring himself to care, but then Bucky crosses his arms again and comprehension dawns over his face. “Yeah, it does draw attention,” he says, glancing at his left arm.

“Yeah, the arm,” Clint says before he can get his mouth back under control. “That’s totally what I was talking about.”

Bucky’s eyebrows go up again and Clint resists the urge to smack his hand over his face, because is he really still standing there making flirtatious small talk with Bucky Barnes? God, he can only hope that Bucky isn’t reading into his bizarre behavior, because he’s honestly not meaning to, it’s kind of just happening without his brain’s permission.

“Coffee,” Clint says, and waves vaguely at Bucky, stepping backwards away from him. “Thanks for the catch.”

Bucky just _looks_ at him, all straight-face and lazy eyes. “Thanks for the compliments.”

Giving up on his dignity for the rest of the day, Clint just gives him a tired thumbs-up and turns away, wondering how many cups of coffee he’s going to need to get his brain back functioning at an acceptable level. He gets to the end of the corridor and slaps his hand on the elevator panel, hoping to all hell that there aren’t any calls to assemble before he’s consumed at least three. The elevator arrives moments later and he steps into it, turns around and then looks up to see Bucky is still standing there, casually leaning on the wall and apparently watching Clint as he walks away.

The elevator doors close and Clint slumps back against the wall, wishing he’d just gone back to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

“What am I doing today? The same as I’m always doing, Mon Capitan, being a genius and solving everyone’s problems through miracles of engineering.”

“Okay, what miracles of engineering in particular?”

“Why, who wants to know?”

“Me,” Clint says as he walks into the kitchen, stretching his arms above his head in a spine-cracking stretch. Both Steve and Tony look up simultaneously; Tony from where he’s sat on a stool tapping away on a tablet with a mug of coffee in one hand, and Steve from where he’s stood against the counter, in front of the coffee machine. There’s a glass of juice and a pair of bagels on the counter next to him, and Clint wonders if Steve’ll notice if he steals one.

“Only joking,” he says. “I don’t care what you’re building. Hey, have you sorted out that new set of grappling attachments yet?”

“On it,” Tony says vaguely, which could either mean he’s just got to hand them over or he’s not started them yet.

“Morning, Clint,” Steve says warmly, and Clint loves the man, he really does, but at the moment he’s nothing more than a super-solider-sized roadblock on Clint’s journey to coffee.  At least he’s wearing a shirt; Clint doesn’t reckon his brain can take any more of _that_ this morning, not after getting up close and personal with Bucky not five minutes ago.

“So what are you doing today?” Steve repeats, eyes fixed on Tony. His arms are folded across his chest and seriously, the amount of muscle on the man is obscene. Clint absent-mindedly thinks that he actually finds Bucky’s not quite as intimidating stature more attractive, and then blinks and wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

“Maintenance on the Mark fifteen,” Tony finally says. “I need you this afternoon for heavy lifting, clear your schedule.”

“Okay, after we go for lunch.”

Tony looks up at that. “You’re asking me to go with you for lunch?” he asks, and then shakes his head. “No.”

Steve blinks. Clint takes a slow step backwards.

“What?”

“You heard me, no,” Tony repeats distractedly, already back to his tablet, and Steve’s expression turns affronted. Clint takes another step backwards because he doesn’t really want front row tickets to the Steve and Tony show this morning. “Fuck, Cap, are you deaf this morning or what?”

Steve stares at Tony for a moment, then turns his body, picks up a bagel and throws it across the counter like it’s a baseball. It hits Tony on his forehead and he cries out in shock, jerking back and nearly pitching himself off the stool.

“What the fuck,” he gapes, looking down at the bagel and then up at Steve. “Are you really throwing food at me?!”

“Sorry, you were being rude, I thought I’d join in and behave appallingly as well,” Steve says cuttingly.

“ _I_ was being rude?” Tony gapes at him, furious. “Are you hearing yourself? You just threw a goddamn bagel at me-”

“Yes, you were being rude! You can’t just talk to people like that!”

“Oh I’m sorry, it’s not my fault that I’ve had two hours sleep-”

“That is _not_ an excuse! And actually, yes it’s your fault; if you can’t be a decent human being when you’re tired then get some more damn sleep.”

Tony shuts his mouth, a tight line, which means he’s got no reply to that. He grabs the tablet in one hand and bends down to pick up the bagel with the other, putting it on the counter like he’s proving a point.

“How petty, I hope you’re pleased with yourself, now you’ve lost half your breakfast just because-”

Steve makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat.“I lived through the war, you really think I’m not going to eat a bagel because it’s been on the floor for ten seconds?”

“Maybe I’ll eat your goddamn bagel,” Tony threatens, and Clint has officially had enough. He hesitates, looks at the coffee machine, then at Tony, then at Steve and then back to the coffee machine, before deciding _Starbucks._

Tony and Steve are too busy arguing to even notice Clint leaving the room. He’d take offense to that but when those two are in full argument fueled by obvious unresolved-sexual-tension they probably wouldn’t even notice if he was on fire.

As he trudges back towards his room to change his sweats for jeans and find some shoes, he wonders if the two of them are ever going to get it together because the bickering is just getting out of hand now. Honestly, he thinks they’ll both be a lot happier if they just give in and bang already.  

Ah, fuck it. They can sort themselves out. He’s got a Starbucks to get to.

 

* * *

 

 

He manages to get as far as the lobby.

Halfway across the space, he comes to a standstill with his keys in one hand and his wallet in the other, looking through the glass doors that open out onto the small plaza with the street just beyond. His mouth is hanging slightly open because it appears that every reporter in New York is currently standing outside the tower. Fuck, he can hear them from in here, and that’s through several inches bomb-proof glass.

“Oh, _why_ ,” Clint asks no-one in particular, taking a few steps forwards. Okay, maybe on second thought there’s not as many reporters as he first thought; he could probably get through them with not too much trouble. Or maybe that’s just his caffeine-deprived brain talking, demanding that he risk life and limb to reach coffee as quickly as possible.

“Acceptable risk,” he says, and shoves his keys and wallet inside his pocket. “Let’s do this.”

He strides to the doors, and stops with his hand on the cool glass. Maybe he could call Phil, ask him to bring him coffee. Maybe if he promises to hand in his next mission report on time, Phil will take pity on him-

But then he glimpses a flash of ginger hair in the midst of the crowd, and he doesn’t even think twice before yanking the door open and diving through.

“Pepper!” he shouts, elbowing his way through the rabble. Shit, he needs Bucky here for this; that guy can separate a crowd with nothing more than the thousand yard stare that he still likes to crack out every now and again. Clint will have to do with stamping on feet and shoving.

He breaks through the crowd to see Pepper arguing fiercely with a reporter who is rather too close to her face for Clint’s liking. She’s holding her own admirably though, and Clint knows that much more of this and the guy will find himself on the wrong end of a lawsuit.

Eh, lawsuits take too long.

“Sorry, not sorry,” he says, and grabs the back of the guy's jacket, hauling him back and swinging him round, sending him sprawling onto the floor.  The rest of the reporters take hasty steps backwards, though a few at the back are still shouting, trying to get Pepper's attention.

“Clint!” Pepper says, sounding scandalized, and he turns to her, shrugging and scratching the back of his head. He adopts what he hopes is a winning smile.

“Er, fancy seeing you here?”

“You, Clint Barton, are a liability,” she says, shaking her head and stepping towards him. She’s got that look on her face, the one that says she means business and is about to do something drastic in order to get shit done.  Clint normally keeps well out of the way of any such expressions, but she’s already linking her arm through his and stepping towards the doors. He obediently wheels around, shoving another reporter back with his free hand and guiding her safely into the tower.

“What the hell is that all about?” he asks as the doors close again, muffling the commotion outside. He glances longingly towards the doors, thinking mournfully of the Starbucks that’s a mere five blocks away. It really shouldn’t be this hard to get a damn cup of coffee in this day and age.

Pepper huffs, scowling at the reporters through the tint of the glass. “ _Tony_ ,” she says, and Clint wishes he hadn’t asked. “This.”

She shoves a tablet computer into his hand and Clint takes one look at the picture that’s displayed and starts to laugh. He laughs so hard that he bends over forwards, bracing his hand on his knees. He can’t hold it back, even though part of him thinks he really should.

“It is not funny,” Pepper smacks him on his back between his shoulder blades.

“Hey, don’t beat up your rescuer,” Clint manages to choke out between laughs. He straightens up and looks at the picture for a second time, and it’s enough to set him off laughing all over again, because really, a set of photos that show Iron Man with his hand clearly and unarguably squeezing Captain America’s ass is absolute fucking gold.

Clint looks at the picture again and spots several things he didn’t the first time around; the way Tony is actually trying to be discreet about what he’s doing, standing shoulder to shoulder with Steve with only his arm slipped behind them. The way his head is tilted towards Steve, expression neutral. It’s not his usual ass-smack accompanied by a joking leer, and huh, ain’t that interesting.

God, no wonder Steve has such a short fuse with Tony these days.

“It is not funny,” Pepper insists, and she reaches up to press her hand to her forehead. Clint sees the pinched expression and frustration in her countenance and forces himself to sober up. “The board is going crazy, they think he’s just tabloid baiting again, and the stocks-”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Clint says, now straight faced enough to try and have a conversation. He lowers the tablet. “Pepper-”

“He promised me I wouldn’t have to do this anymore!” Pepper bursts out over him, gesticulating with one perfectly manicured hand. “He promised, no more clearing up his mess – I’m his CEO, not his PA, and I’m still clearing up his messes, what is Steve _thinking_ -”

“He probably isn’t?” Clint suggests, and then shoves the tablet under his arm, clamping it to his side as he catches Pepper gently by her elbows. “Pepper. You are the best CEO in the US. Hell, you were voted fifth best CEO in the world. You are not responsible for Tony’s bullshit. Call his new PA and sick him on Tony. Hell, call Steve and sick him on Tony.”

Pepper breathes out shakily through her mouth, lips a perfect O in an obvious and textbook attempt at controlling her breathing. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Show Steve the picture and he’ll probably do it for you,” Clint suggests, and Pepper laughs shakily. “Okay, so are you here just to shout at Tony?”

“No, no,” she says, shaking her head, fringe bouncing against her forehead. “I was coming to get him to sign some paperwork he’s been ignoring, it needed to be done a week and a half ago, and they caught up with me-”

“Good morning, Ms Potts.”

Natasha’s silky voice carries easily across the lobby, and Clint and Pepper both turn simultaneously to see Natasha and Bucky walking across the lobby towards them. Pepper’s expression clears and she smiles over at Natasha. For his part, Clint is just glad that Bucky has decided to put a shirt on.

“Hello,” Pepper says, reaching out. Natasha takes her hands and leans in to kiss both of her cheeks before pulling back and studying Pepper’s face. Bucky nods at her in greeting, standing just behind Natasha and folding his arms over his chest. His eyes go instantly to the doors, narrowing slightly as he spots the crowd of reporters.

“What’s he done?”

“That obvious?” Pepper says, with a depreciating laugh. “Refusing to sign paperwork, setting the tabloids off, not taking calls. The usual.”

“Zalupa,” Natasha murmurs, and Bucky snorts with laughter.

“Zhopa,” he says, nodding agreeably, and then looks at Clint. “He’s being an asshole,” he translates, and Clint nods understanding.

“Zhopa indeed,” he says. “Are he and Steve still yelling at each other?”

“No,” Bucky says. “Steve is being the _‘bigger man’_ and has stormed off to sulk.” He makes air quotes with both hands as he does, and Clint bites down on a grin.

Pepper slips a hand out of Natasha’s, pressing it to her forehead again. “They’re fighting _again?_ Oh god, I am going to kill him. He’s still engaged in this petty – petty _pissing match_ with Captain America-”

“Ohhhh-kay,” Clint interrupts hastily, before Pepper blows a gasket. He grabs the tablet that Pepper had handed him and holds it up. “I assume the contracts he’s meant to be signing are on here?”

“Yes,” Pepper snaps, and then drops her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh god, Clint, I am so sorry-”

“Right, open them up,” Clint says, ignoring her snapping and holding the tablet out to Pepper. She takes it and swiftly hovers her fingers over the surface, and when she’s done he whips it out of her hands again.

“Right. Natasha, can I trade? You take Pepper and go and get her coffee, or margaritas, or a Tony Stark voodoo doll. I’m taking Barnes.”

“You are?” Bucky looks at Clint with raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” Clint says. “We are going to go beat a signature out of Tony Stark.”

Bucky pauses for a moment and then shrugs. “Okay.”

“Wow, this morning just got better,” Natasha says, and smiles at the wounded look Bucky sends her way. “Oh please, I know where you’d rather be.”

Bucky’s affronted expression turns into a flat out glare. Natasha merely smirks at him and reaches out to pat his cheek. “Ya znayu, chto vy , kak on,” she drawls. “Vy luchshe potselovat' yego v blizhaysheye vremya , ili ya skazhu yemu.” Bucky gives her a shove, but she just laughs and goes to draw Pepper away, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

“I can’t,” Pepper says, “I’ve got to-”

“We got this,” Clint says, flapping a dismissive hand at her. “How much time did you schedule for arguing with Tony?”

“Two hours, give or take,” Pepper sighs.

“Okay, we’re on it. Go and take those two hours, and do something better with them.”

“I can’t,” Pepper is insisting, turning around to look at him over her shoulder even as Natasha starts steering her towards the doors.

“Reporters,” Bucky calls out pointedly.

Natasha doesn’t so much as hesitate. “Not a problem,” she says with a slow smile back at them, and Clint feels a flicker of sympathy for any reporter that tries to get in her way.

“So,” Clint says cheerfully as Pepper and Natasha leave the building. “Who’s gonna be good cop?”

Bucky snorts with laughter. “Go get your bow,” he says, and Clint grins at him, clapping him on his left shoulder.

“I like the way you think,” he says. “Straight to weapons and violence. Come on, the sooner we get this done the sooner I can get a cup of goddamn coffee.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Tony.”

Tony looks up and visibly jolts, one hand reflexively jerking up for a moment before he regains composure and scowls over at Clint and Bucky. Clint is standing at the bottom of the stairs with his bow in hand, an arrow nocked and held loosely in his fingers. Bucky is smirking and standing a couple of steps up, leaning casually against the wall with the tablet in hand.

“What the fuck is this? Did Steve tattle on me, send you to defend his honor?” Tony asks, looking annoyed. He turns back to his workbench, picking up a soldering iron in one hand and a teeny tiny circuit board in the other.

Clint hears Bucky shift behind him and wonders who the hell labelled Tony Stark as a genius, because badmouthing Steve Rogers in front of Bucky Barnes is quite simply a very dumb thing to do.

“No,” Clint says neutrally. “Pepper sent me.”

Tony freezes momentarily, and then carries on lifting the circuit board up to the light. “Yeah, no dice. Don’t care. Go away.”

Clint exchanges a look with Bucky, who gives him a nod. Clint straightens up and draws his bow. Tony lifts the circuit up to his face to examine it and pauses just a second too long.

There’s the snap of a bowstring, a _thunk_ , the screech of a chair on the floor and a strangled yelp.

“Barton, you fucking maniac!” Tony shouts, gaping at his left hand which is now pinned to the side of a metal tool cabinet by way of an arrow through the hem of his shirtsleeve, pressed in to the underside of his arm. He fruitlessly tugs at the arrow with his other hand but can’t get the leverage to yank it free.

“Fuck, you asshole,” Tony snaps as Clint lowers his bow with a grin. He turns to Bucky who grins in return, eyes sparking with mischief.

“Chill out,” Clint says, walking over to Tony.

“Chill out?! You shot me-”

“I shot your shirt,” Clint says dismissively, crouching down to pick up the dropped soldering iron, placing it back in its cradle.

“Lucky you weren’t wearing a tight one,” Bucky muses, following Clint and standing a step back, grinning widely at Tony.

Tony narrows his eyes at them. “Since when is this a thing? You two hanging out is possibly the worst idea anyone has ever had-”

Clint opens his mouth and places his hand over his heart, all fake affront. “Oh Tony, words hurt,” he says. “Why would you say that?”

“Because there has to be at least one good influence in any dynamic duo and I’ve got news for you, neither of you check that box,” Tony says cuttingly. Clint lifts an eyebrow and looks at Bucky, who simply rolls his eyes.

“You need to sign these,” Bucky says, and steps forwards with Pepper’s tablet. Tony looks at the tablet, then at him, then at the arrow that still has him pinned in place.

“You shot me because you want me to _sign something?_ ”

“I shot you because Pepper needs you to sign something,” Clint says, taking the tablet from Bucky. “She’s going crazy trying to run your company for you and you’re making her job ten times harder by putting off shit like this. Not to mention the fact you groping Steve’s ass is all over the papers this morning.”

Guilt flickers across Tony’s face. He’s silent for a moment, looking down at the floor, and then he lifts his chin somewhat defiantly. “She could have just asked. I would have done it. And I didn’t actually mean to get caught doing that. It was just a joke.”

Clint exchanges another look with Bucky, and Bucky turns his face away, biting back a grin. Clint manages to keep a straight face as he walks over to Tony, swinging his bow over his shoulders. He bats his eyelashes and holds the tablet out. “Sign here please, Mister Stark.”

“Please never do that again,” Tony says flatly. “And I’m not signing anything until you unstick me,” he adds, wriggling the fingers of his pinned hand.

“Deal,” Clint says. Without him having to ask, Bucky steps around him, places his real hand on the cabinet and pulls the arrow free with his metal hand. He shuffles back, twirling the arrow between his metal fingers like a baton.

“What is this?” Tony asks as he takes the tablet from Clint. “Does Steve know you two are suddenly best bros?”

“We’ve always been best bros,” Bucky says, wandering away and peering over at Tony’s workbench. There’s a beeping and Dummy scuttles out from his corner, whirring hopefully.

“Dummy, don’t,” Tony says as Dummy stops just behind Bucky, arm reaching out inquisitively towards Bucky’s metal one. “No poking the cyborg-”

“Hey, signing,” Clint says, tapping the tablet and drawing Tony’s attention back. “Come on. I’ve got places to be, things to shoot.”

Tony makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat, but doesn’t say anything more. He taps and scribbles away on the tablet and then passes it back with a flourish.

“There you are, Pepper’s new PA,” he says. “Where is she, anyway?”

“I sent her drinking with Natasha,” Clint says and Tony blanches.

“What?”

“You should be thanking me. She was ready to throttle you earlier. Something about you tabloid baiting?”

“I told you,” Tony says adamantly. “It was a _joke._ ”

Clint snorts. “Bullshit. I’ve seen you joke. And I’ve seen the way you look at Steve. Who, by the way, is totally serious about you,” Clint adds, because why the hell not. “Stop being a defensive ass, take down those Fort-Knox-grade emotional protection barriers we all know you have, and let the man take you for lunch.”

It’s not often that Tony Stark is left speechless; it’s quite a funny sight. Clint merely salutes him, rescues Bucky from Dummy and leaves the workshop. He gets as far as the top of the stairs when Tony finally regains powers of speech, and Clint hears him shout “Barton, you are banned from talking to Steve for the next twelve hours!”

“I won’t!” Clint yells back, and then turns to look at Bucky. “I probably will.”

Bucky laughs at that, and something odd flip-flops in Clint’s stomach. He tells whatever it is to quit it and to go flop around somewhere else. It doesn’t listen, because Bucky is slinging an arm around Clint’s shoulders, roughly squeezing him.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Clint says, and Bucky laughs again. The stupid thing in his stomach happily squirms and Clint is honestly a little baffled at where the hell it’s come from and why it’s chosen to be awakened by Bucky Barnes. Must be a residual effect of him not being laid in forever and ending up with his face in Bucky’s chest just after waking up.

“So,” he says, because Bucky still has his arm slung over Clint’s shoulders, metal fingers glinting in the light. “This thing is kinda heavy.”

“You’re a strong guy,” Bucky says, but then does glance over. “Sorry,” he says, and withdraws his arm with a grimace. “It’s kind of a pain.”

“It’s kind of hot,” Clint says without thinking, and Bucky does an honest to god double take.

“What?”

“Erm, well. It’s like – you’re like hella strong. Like powerful, and it’s like that as well – and everything that happened to you and-” Bucky’s eyebrows are slowly climbing further and further up his forehead and Clint is still talking. “I just mean it’s like – well, it’s shiny?” Clint finishes, wincing at how it comes out like a question. “I mean, that’s not what makes you hot. You’re just hot. But the arm is like part of that and oh my god I’m sorry, I have to go and shoot myself in the face real quick.”

And before he can say anything else – smarter than he looks, yeah right – he bails. He walks away without looking back, resisting the urge to knock his head into every hard surface available.

“Idiot, idiot,” he mutters to himself when he’s far away enough from Bucky. He needs to get away from him as soon as possible, before he can make himself out to be an even bigger idiot than he already has done.

“Starbucks,” he mutters, deciding to go for the classic run-away-from-potential-discomfort. “Get me the hell out of this madhouse.”

 

* * *

 

 

He gets as far as the counter.

The barista is looking at him with a slightly concerned expression. It might be that the slight edge of mania he feels at being so close to caffeine is showing on his face, though it might be the fact he’s not exactly looking his best. He’s pretty sure his hair is on a mission to actively defy gravity, and the shirt he’s wearing does have toothpaste and something he’s pretty sure is peanut butter on it.

Or it could be the fact he’s still got his bow slung over his shoulder and his quiver on his back. Man, he hopes he’s got his Avengers ID in his pocket because trusting his luck today he’s going to get stopped by the cops.  

“What can I get you?”

“Coffee,” he says, thrusting a twenty as the barista. “The biggest coffee you do. Caramel.”

The barista nods, takes the money, reaches for a cup, and then the entire front window explodes.  

Glass shatters everywhere; people are screaming and diving for cover. Clint wheels around with his bow in hand, heart pounding in his chest. A figure clad in red is stirring under the remnants of table and chairs, and Clint spots a pair of black katanas strapped to the person’s back.

Oh, no.

“ _Deadpool?!_ ”

“No, I’m Spider-Man,” Deadpool says, shifting around to sit on his ass and looking around. “Can I get a Frappuccino to go, please?”

People outside are still screaming, and the last of the patrons of the Starbucks are frantically heading for the door. There seems to be something going on outside; Clint can hear a low mechanical whirring and sirens in the distance. The ground shudders beneath his feet as well, reminding him ominously of Jurassic Park in a way that’s really not very comforting.

“Seriously, how hard can it be to get a – Hawkeye!”

Apparently completely not bothered by the fact he’s just been launched through a window, Deadpool springs to his feet, arms extended towards Clint who takes a hasty step backwards. Deadpool is bleeding from several places already and Clint’s danger-senses are tingling.

“DEADPOOL!” a voice yells over the growing commotion outside, and then of all people _Spider-Man_ crawls through the gap where the window used to be, scanning the room from above and then dropping down to stand next to them.

“I found backup!” Deadpool says, gesturing expansively towards Clint. “Threeway teamup!”

And Spider-Man looks from Deadpool to Clint and back again, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. Outside, the mechanical whirring now sounds more like a garbage disposal trying to chow down on an Iron Man gauntlet.

“No more robots this week,” Clint says. “No more. We just got rid of the spiders!”

“It’s only one robot,” Deadpool says, and pats Clint ontop of his head. Clint shoves him away. “Come on. Threeway. It’ll be awesome.”

Clint grimaces. “Phrasing.”

“We could do with the help,” Spider-Man says, utterly ignoring Deadpool’s blathering and looking to Clint.

“Call the Avengers!”

“We don’t need to call them, we found you!” Deadpool says, delighted. “Easy-peasy mission with three of us. And besides, Captain America is pretty mad at me right now. He’ll come around – best friends always forgive each other - but right now he's pretty mad at me. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Come along Hawkeye. Move that beautiful ass and help.”

Clint jolts as Deadpool smacks him squarely on the ass and then heads towards the front of the shop where the window used to be, whistling tunelessly.

“I just wanted a coffee,” Clint pleads to no-one in particular.

Spider-Man looks at him, and even though he’s wearing his mask Clint knows it’s a pitying expression on his face under the spandex. “I’m sorry, Hawkeye,” he says apologetically, and then before Clint can even blink there’s a _thwap_ , web attached securely to the center of his chest.

“Oh, fuck it,” Clint says forlornly, and then he’s yanked bodily out of the wreckage of the coffee shop and into the fight.

* * *

 

 

“-told you it would be easy-peasy, and we only wrecked about four blocks and I don’t think anyone got killed. Apart from the robot, but I’m not sure you can kill a robot? Whatever you did – you unalived it with a quarter, that’s just. Wow.  _Ping_ , straight through its robot brain like a quarter dollar silver bullet-”

“Deadpool,” Clint says distantly, staring at the gaping hole where the coffee shop used to be, the tangled mess of metal that used to be a murderous robot. “Can you just not.”

He reaches up and wipes his hand over his face, swiping away the worst of the syrup and stray flakes of pastry.

“This was amazing,” Deadpool says happily. “I’m threewaying with you two more often.”

Clint would argue, but he honestly doesn’t know if he can find words. He just stands there, covered in syrup and coffee grounds, staring at the rubble in front of him, vaguely wondering what the hell the universe has got out for him today.

There’s a swish and a barely audible thump. “Thank you, Hawkeye,” a voice on his other side says. “Really.”

“Why did you just not call the Avengers in?” Clint says, turning to Spider-Man. He shifts from one foot to the other, and then gestures to Deadpool.

“Steve would kill me if he knew I’d gotten involved with Deadpool’s mess again,” he says in a rush, sounding defensive and perilously close to whining. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh great,” Clint says. “Now Steve is going to kick both our asses.”

Deadpool crouches to the ground and picks up what looks like a squashed muffin. He inspects it, then rolls up the lower half of his mask and takes a huge bite.  “You’re not supposed to call him Steve unless you’re his best friend,” he says, spraying crumbs everywhere. “And _Steve_ won’t kick anyone’s ass. He’s a softie under all that red, white and blue.”

“Softie, my ass. Steve will kick your ass all the way back to Canada,” Clint mutters.

“Why? Is he coming?” Deadpool asks, twisting around and looking both ways. “Here? Right now?”

“Hawkeye.”

A loud voice and the sound of footsteps behind them has them all turning around simultaneously. Clint’s stomach sinks as Coulson walks up, stopping a few feet away from him and spreading his hands in a clear _‘care to explain?’_ gesture.

“Would you believe me if I said it was all their fault?” he tries half-heartedly.

Spider-Man and Deadpool both turn to look at him, indignant. “Hey!”

“Get back to the tower,” Coulson says to him calmly. “Now.”

Clint gathers up his sticky equipment and the remnants of his dignity, and goes without arguing, ignoring Deadpool’s shout of “Call me!” as he trudges back towards home.

 

* * *

 

 

“What were you thinking?

Sitting at the conference table in the meeting room of Avengers tower, Clint pauses in his attempt to get all the caramel syrup out of his ear, scowling up at Coulson through a squinted eye. “I didn’t exactly choose to get involved. I was literally dragged through the window.”

“You were there exactly as the hostile arrived,” Coulson says, exasperated. “Pretty good timing.”

“I was trying to get coffee!”

“Why would you go all the way to Starbucks for coffee, Clint?! There’s enough caffeine in this tower to keep Stark and Rogers going, there’s enough for you!”

Clint opens his mouth and then shuts it again, because the answer is _‘I accidentally flirted with Bucky and ran out of the tower in shame,’_ and he’s not sure he wants to say that out loud.

Coulson just pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out deeply. “You need to write this up.”

“What? Oh, no. Phil, please don’t make me-”

“You three caused more damage to Manhattan than the rest of the Avengers have managed in months! And with Deadpool of all people – you realize Fury is going to be on my ass about this for the next forever. And that’s on top of the press snapping photos of you throwing your weight about with the reporters earlier.”

“The universe hates me,” Clint says to no-one in particular. “Out to get me.”

“I don’t care. Go and shower, and then get back here.”

“But-”

“Clint. Just do it.”

Feeling more than slightly like a chastised teenager, Clint heaves himself out of the chair, leaving sticky handprints as he goes. He reaches for his bow but Coulson shakes his head at him. “Nu-uh,” he says. “That stays with me.”

Clint stops dead. “You have got to be kidding me. Why?!”

“Because you will zipline out of the window given half a chance and I need you to write this up,” Coulson says, and then he sighs. “Clint, I’m sorry. But if this isn’t handled properly, we’ll be in a hell of a mess.”

“No need for you to be such a hard ass about it,” Clint grouches. “Can I at least-”

“No,” Coulson says. “Get clean, get it done. Then there’s less chance that Fury will want to talk to you.”

“Anything happens to my baby,” he says to Coulson, pointing a warning finger at him before heading for the door. Phil doesn’t even look back, preoccupied by his phone ringing in his hand.

“Fucking Deadpool, fucking Spider-Man,” Clint mutters as he walks away. “Fucking coffee, fucking robots.”

“Whoa, what the hell happened to you?”

 _And ‘fucking Universe’_ he says to himself, because that’s Bucky’s voice behind him. Sighing, he trudges to a standstill, head hanging down as he hears Bucky walk up behind him. A metal hand clasps on his shoulder.

“And why the fuck do you smell like a Cappuccino?”

“Deadpool. Robot. Starbucks. Explosion,” Clint says wearily. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

“Oh, man,” Bucky says, sympathetic. “Tough break. Why the hell were you in Starbucks anyway?”

“I just wanted coffee,” Clint says a little plaintively, and how much more dignity can he possibly throw under Bucky’s feet today? For some reason though, Bucky just laughs.

“I feel that,” he says. “Hey, you dunk yourself in the bath right now you’ll get your coffee. Though it will be-” he pauses and swipes his finger through some of the syrup on Clint’s cheek and then pops it into his mouth– “caramel flavored.”

Clint nearly swallows his own tongue. “I, uh,” he manages, staring at Bucky’s mouth. “I like caramel?”

“Good to know,” Bucky says, and then his eyes very obviously drag up and down Clint in a leisurely sweep. “Luckily, I do too.”

And the bastard winks, actually winks at Clint before sauntering off. Clint stands there speechless.

“What the hell,” he says to no-one in particular, because there's accidental flirting and then there's _flirting_ flirting and he really has no idea what the hell is going on any more.

 

* * *

 

 

He manages to get through the shower without anything else unfortunate happening to him. He doesn’t particularly want to get out and face the music with Coulson, but he knows from experience that it will be better just to get the paperwork out of the way. By this point he’s aching all over and a headache is blooming sharply behind his eyes, probably as a combination from the day he’s had and caffeine withdrawal.

He slumps back into the conference room with a bad grace to find a blank report ready to be filled in, sitting alongside a bottle of water. He sits down and throws the water in the trash out of spite, before grudgingly getting up to fetch it and drinking half.

The door stays open. He dejectedly hears Natasha and Pepper laughing somewhere down the corridor at one point, and Bruce walks past not long after, too distracted by the book in his hand to notice Clint. Clint powers through the report, quickly filling in all of the details with the aim of getting it done as quickly as possible.

“Here.”

Without warning, a white cup with the name _Hawkguy_ scrawled on the side in black marker pen appears on the table in front of him.  The aroma of fresh coffee – oh holy shit is that caramel it must be his birthday – invades his senses and he reaches out for the cup, half expecting it to explode, or vanish, or be full of something that’s not coffee-

It doesn’t and it isn’t, and Clint rips off the plastic lid and gulps down a mouthful, not giving a shit that it’s hot enough to burn his tongue.

“Oh my god I love you,” he manages to say, clutching the cup in both hands, and then looks around to see who his savior is-

Bucky stands there with an eyebrow raised, just enough. Clint’s mouth works uselessly for a moment and he feels his face warming slightly. He looks down at the table and then looks up again, sipping his drink and trying to look casual. It doesn’t work.

Thankfully, he’s saved from having to try and form a sentence by Phil walking back into the room.

“Have you done it?” he asks impatiently, and Clint immediately holds out the tablet.

Phil looks pleasantly surprised for a moment, and then as his eyes flicker back and forth over the tablets his mouth tightens into the patented Phil-Is-Not-Amused look.

“I was getting coffee I was kidnapped by Deadpool he argued slash flirted with Spider-Man I knocked out a giant robot with a quarter and left without the coffee I had already paid for because the coffee shop got blown up,” Phil reads in one breath, and then lowers the tablet, staring at Clint. “Are you serious?”

“I think it’s succinct.”

“I think it’s a piece of crap,” Phil says flatly. “You’re going to redo this.”

“But Phil,” Clint whines as Phil thrusts the tablet back into his hands.

“Redo. It.” Phil says. “Times, locations, everything Deadpool said in _direct quotes_ , and an explanation as to _why_ knocking out a robot with a quarter was the best course of action.”

And without another word, Coulson turns on his heel and leaves. Clint groans and slumps forwards over the table, banging his head lightly against the surface.

“Jeez, you’re a melodramatic son of a bitch,” Bucky says, sounding like he’s stifling laughter. “Get on with it, Barton.”

“I thought you were on my side,” Clint grouches, sitting up.

“I am,” Bucky says. “Hey, at least you’ve got coffee now. Get your brain firing on more cylinders.”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Clint says, and he turns a rueful smile on Bucky. “Thanks.”

“You’re more than welcome,” Bucky says, and reaches out to clap his hand gently against Clint’s cheek. “Get it done, and you can come and try out some more of your car crash flirtin’ on me. Promise I won’t even laugh.”

And for the second time in a day he winks at Clint and then walks away, leaving Clint smiling bemusedly down at his paperwork.

* * *

 

 

It’s almost seven PM by the time Clint sucks it up and finishes his report. He doesn’t bother proof-reading it, just jabs the save and send button viciously with a finger. He’s absolutely exhausted; after the day he’s had he just wants to go back to bed. 

He puts his success in finishing his report down to the fact Bucky bought him coffee. Without it, he wouldn’t have got past filling in the date let alone the rest of the information that Phil insists is necessary.

“Congratulations on finishing your report, Agent Barton,” Jarvis says from the ceiling as he turns the tablet off and climbs to his feet, back twinging in protest at being hunched over for so long. “Agent Barnes asked me to inform you that you are expected in the communal area when you have completed the task up to a standard that Agent Coulson would find acceptable.”

“You got it,” Clint says, yawning widely. He makes his way to the communal floor and a warm feeling settles in his chest when he walks in and sees nearly everyone is there already. Pepper and Natasha are sat at the counter, drinking some shockingly pink cocktails and talking in low voices, conspiratorial smiles firmly in place. Bruce is there as well, sat in one of the armchairs with a textbook of some sort open on his knee, though his eyes are fixed absently on the TV. Steve and Tony are there, and Clint bites back a smile as he looks them over. Tony is sat on the sofa and Steve is on the floor between his feet, leaning back against the front of the couch. Tony’s fingers are tracing gently up and down the back of Steve’s neck, and Steve’s head is tilted sideways, cheek resting against the inside of Tony’s thigh.

Grinning, Clint looks over at the last occupant of the room; Bucky is sat in the big loveseat armchair and his eyes are already on Clint. Also biting back a grin, he jerks his head in a beckoning motion and Clint hesitates only for a moment before walking over and diving into the seat next to him.

Bucky shifts as Clint settles in next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Looks like they got their act together.”

“Shut your hole, Buck,” Steve says without looking away from the TV. Tony glances at Steve and then over at Bucky and Clint, scowling.

“Yeah, like you two can talk,” he says, obviously having worked out what Clint and Bucky are sniggering about. Bucky just smiles lazily back at Tony and gives him the finger. Tony rolls his eyes but does turn his attention back to the film, and after a moment carries on stroking the back of Steve’s neck.

Clint bites his lip, looks towards the TV. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Steve look over at him and Bucky again, and when he turns his head slightly he notices Natasha looking at them as well. He feels the back of his neck going warm, because yeah he and Bucky have apparently been flirting all day but this is something else, with the others all watching. 

Oh, fuck it. Might as well see if he can salvage something out of this train wreck of a day.

Pointedly ignoring the others, he leans in so his mouth is right up close to Bucky’s ear. “Thanks for bringing me coffee,” he murmurs.

Bucky honest to god shivers, looking up and turning his face towards Clint’s. They end up nearly nose to nose but Clint holds his ground, meeting Bucky’s eyes. He lets his gaze slip down to Bucky’s mouth before looking back up to storm-grey eyes.

“Wow,” Bucky whispers back. “Get some caffeine in you and you’re almost smooth, Barton.”

“I'll be even better if you get something else in me," Clint replies without thinking, and Bucky has to clamp a palm across his mouth to quell the burst of laughter.

“Oh god, really?” Steve complains, ducking away from Tony’s hand and turning around to glare balefully at them. “Jeez, do you two have to?”

“You shut your fucking hole, Rogers,” Bucky replies. “We’re flirting quietly. Not our fault you’ve got super-hearing.”

“Wait, who’s flirting now?” Bruce looks up, looking confused and glancing towards Steve and Tony. “I thought this was sorted earlier. Did I miss something?”

Natasha reaches over and pats his knee. “Don’t worry. Clint just finally decided to notice that Bucky has been making sex-eyes at him for the past few weeks.”

“He has?” Clint asks, taken aback. He then turns to look at Bucky. “You have?”

“You may be an Avenger but you’re dumb as shit about some things,” Bucky says in way of response.

“A lot of that going around,” Natasha says with a pointed look at Steve and Tony.

“Jesus, what is this?” Tony complains. “Can we all just shut up and watch the film?”

“Gladly,” Steve says, and everyone all settles back down to watch.

Bucky makes a contented noise and shifts around, shoving at Clint until Clint is where he wants him. He drapes a leg half over one of Clint’s and throws an arm over his waist. Clint flounders for a moment until Bucky elbows him and he relaxes. He shoves an arm under Bucky’s neck and around his shoulders so Bucky is lazily draped over him more comfortably. As he does, Steve glances over at Bucky and then looks away, biting back a grin even as he settles back into Tony’s touch.

Clint turns his attention towards the film, but Bucky’s fingers somehow find their way under the edge of his shirt and begin tracing small circles on the skin of his waist. It sends the thing in Clint’s stomach twisting over and around again, and he shivers under the attention.

Yeah. Seems like the flirting hasn’t been all for show then. The thought sits hot and heavy in his stomach, anticipation curling through his veins. If he can just hold it together for a little longer, he could very well end up getting laid later.

Somehow, that thought seems more surreal than everything else that’s happened today and he’s honestly waiting for it to all go a little bit wrong somehow.

It doesn’t. The universe seems to have decided he’s had enough for one day, and leaves him be. With Bucky’s warmth pressed close and the oddly comforting drag of Bucky’s fingers on his skin, he finds himself falling asleep, happily dozing while the film plays in the background.  

“Clint. Hey, Clint.”

It could be minutes or hours later when a deep voice slowly permeates into his slumber, murmuring his name.  He feels a hand pushing at his shoulder. He drags himself from sleep, sitting up dazedly and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, blinking hard.

“Whazappnin?”

Bucky laughs softly, a low rumble of sound.

“Relax,” he says. “No emergency.”

Still fogged with sleep, Clint looks around. The rest of the room is now empty, and the TV has switched from the film to a reality show of some sort.

“How long’ve I been asleep?” Clint asks. Bucky yawns and half-stretches underneath him, his real hand sliding under Clint’s shirt and up his back. Oh yeah. Flirting with Bucky, that’s a thing now.

“Couple of hours,” Bucky says. “Thought I’d let you kip for a bit, considering the day you’ve had.”

“Shit, don’t remind me,” Clint groans. “I’d be quite happy to forget today ever existed.”

Bucky looks at him, a little taken aback. “What?”

“Well it’s not exactly been the best of days, has it. I’ve tripped, fallen, been blown up, harassed by telemarketers, got in trouble with the paparazzi, got in trouble with Coulson, got dragged into the Steve and Tony show, almost squashed by a robot and I’m pretty sure I was also sexually harassed by Deadpool.”

Bucky’s expression turns exasperated. “Well, the way I look at it, you managed to get Steve Rogers and Tony Stark to pull their heads out of the asses and talk, which probably will improve team dynamics by around fifty percent now they’re not crippled by sexual tension, you helped Pepper out and probably kept the Stark Industries board of directors from having an aneurysm, survived a kidnapping by Deadpool and also saved the day by knocking a twenty foot robot out with a quarter. And that’s without coffee and considering you are a complete tragedy.”

Clint blinks at him. Huh. Sounds different when you put it that way. “Guess I did.”

Bucky grins. “You’re a pretty good hero, you know.”

“Aw shucks, you’re making me blush,” Clint says, batting his eyelashes at Bucky and waving him away. It’s only half a joke though, and Bucky seems to know it.

“Tragedy,” he repeats, exasperated and fond. “I kinda like it.”

“Good job somebody does,” Clint says.

Bucky’s eyes flicker over his face. “Something else good happened today that you seem to have forgotten about.”

And Clint may be an idiot but he’s not a total idiot, and he knows Bucky is talking about the flirting and the thing that seems to have happened here, but whether it’s actually going to go anywhere is up to Bucky, because he doesn’t trust his luck today.

“Yeah?” he says, feigning confusion. “Someone did bring me a pretty good cup of-”

And he promptly stops talking as Bucky leans in and kisses him, one long press of his mouth that makes Clint’s breath catch in the back of his throat, airless and dizzy.

“Wow,” Clint manages as Bucky pulls back, breathing heavily. “Uh. So that’s. Yeah. Is this?”

“Stop talking before you hurt yourself,” Bucky advises him, and when he kisses Clint this time it’s with purpose, fingers skimming Clint’s jaw and mouth moving against his, coaxing him to respond.

When they finally break apart, Bucky’s eyes are bright and his mouth swollen, and Clint is panting for breath. He’d be embarrassed but he’s just been making out with a damn super-soldier, so he’s really not sparing any time to feeling inadequate.

“So,” Bucky says, trailing lips along Clint’s jaw. “How about tomorrow morning, you keep your useless ass in bed and I’ll go and get coffee.”

“I dunno,” Clint says. “Will you be shirtless again?”

Bucky grins. “That can be arranged.”

“Then you’ve got yourself a deal,” Clint replies, and he’s laughing even as Bucky pulls him in, doing his best to shut Clint up by kissing the breath out of him all over again.


End file.
